


Dolls, Lost and Found

by penniless1



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penniless1/pseuds/penniless1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lowell's death and the Manchester family's virtual kidnapping of her son, she was like a lost doll. Hamish only wanted to help her find herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dolls, Lost and Found

"That used to belong to your sister, did it not?" a familiar male voice asked quietly.

Lady Margaret Manchester delicately laughed into her black, lace-trimmed kerchief, even as her thinned lips drew themselves outwards in a tight, wan smile. In her hand was a delicate china doll dressed in fluffy layers of white taffeta, its hair unusually pale and streaming loosely over the elfin back. The large, glass eyes were dark and luminous, while the bow-shaped mouth was pursed in a half-kiss, the rosy lips childishly blackened with charcoal.

"Actually, it was mine," she answered in a low, husky voice that set his delicate digestion to quivering. "I allowed Alice to borrow her one day for a tea party. Later that night, Alice pleaded desperately for leniency as I boxed her ears - she kept saying that she'd lost it falling down a rabbit hole."

Lord Hamish Ascot emerged from the gloom of the nursery doorway, his steely blue eyes carefully taking note of the lady's dark attire. Since Lord Lowell Manchester's death some years back, his widow had dutifully dressed in black from head to toe. The color made her small face appear paler, tinier than he had ever known her to be, while her eyes seemed to stare blankly from the darkness, wisps of nigh-white hair and the ribbons of her dreadful black bonnet framing the tableau of desperation and solitude. Indeed, it was a conundrum to declare who appeared to be more lifeless - the widow Manchester or the doll in her hands.

The thought was rather unsettling as he watched her place the doll on a nearby shelf. The awkwardness of seeing his childhood sweetheart now that she was all but ousted from the Manchester home - indeed, from the Ton itself! - gripped him in a way he had not been able to notice before when he'd hastily ordered his driver to halt at the familiar townhouse. He had not hesitated outside when he'd caught sight of the Kingsleigh coach - one of the few luxuries that her mother-in-law still allowed her after all but spiriting away her child. No doubt the still-young widow was to be 'put out to pasture' in her childhood home now that she had done her duty by the family; out of sight and mind of the Manchester estate other than a pittance of rent and living allowance.

The situation made him want to grind his teeth at his continued powerlessness. What good was a title if he still could not save the woman he'd yearned for since time immemorial?

"Have you found yourself a wife yet? I would imagine that you are quite the catch given the way the company is thriving."

Lord Ascot blinked, caught unawares as Lady Manchester referenced the London Season that was due to begin. Indeed, it was the reason why he was even in the city - he had to appear in Parliament on the morrow! Flustered, his damnable complexion betrayed him. Embarrassment and...frustration? Yes, embarrassment and frustration rose into the apples of his cheeks, reddening them to match his fiercely copper hair as he strode past her to pat the mane of the rocking horse in the far corner.

"It would seem that only Kingsleigh girls would entertain the thought of playing house with me," he muttered testily as he leaned his cane against the horse, "And I am certain we all remember how well that has turned out?"

Behind his back, Lady Manchester was silent - as if she were a mouse who had learned that survival could only be ensured by being as invisible as possible. Knowing what he had heard of the late Lowell Manchester, Hamish had a feeling that such had been the case. The thought of the slightly haughty, yet clever and precise girl he had known being thus cowed fueled his irrational anger. He snorted loudly in disgust at his cowardice, looking very much like the toy horse at his knees. He should have rescued her, taken her away from her madness, forced her to see the error long before-

No. No. To force himself on her in that way would have been dreadful in the end; he would have been no better than that skulking doggard if he had ripped her away from her dear family through his own inherent powers over her. He wanted to proudly proclaim that she had finally chosen him without prejudice.

"I apologize."

Her soft-spoken words broke him out of his reverie. His hand knocked against his cane, sending it clattering to the floor while his foot kicked the horse, setting it rocking with a host of creaks.

"I am sure that if I had made my marriage to Lowell a better example of happiness, Alice would certainly have accepted your suit..."

"Do not apologize for that cad!" Lord Ascot barked as he turned swiftly on one heel, his voice carrying throughout the home as his gloved hands clenched at his side. He sucked in a harsh breath, his face frozen in an angry grimace as he remembered Alice's personal pleas before she left London.

 _"Please, look out for her. I...I caught my brother-in-law frolicking with another woman in the Labyrinth at your family's estate and it was one of many, many things that let me know that I was not ready to wed. But poor Margaret! No, I cannot ruin her life in society before her child is even born. I must ask that you watch over my sister and Lowell - make him see the errors of his ways before they destroy her!"_

Had he done so? No. Instead, in pleasing society and his mother, he had allowed the Manchester family to play with both young mother and son; to throw her away like a halfpenny rag-doll-

His vision blurred, such that he was forced to blink. Hard, metallic eyes softened as he caught her sapphire pair widened in surprise, her small mouth gasping in shock. He felt a madness descend upon him - the same madness that had made him propose to the older woman when he was still in knee-britches, the madness that had left him as she sweetly refused him, clearly teaching him what she needed in a 'proper' man and leaving him cursing the heavens for being born five years too late.

Lord Ascot strode back towards her, his longer legs eating the small space in the count of three, then he clasped one of her hands in his own. The feel of the black, lacy, finger-less gloves scratching his palm and the scant heat that lay dormant beneath the tips of her fingers were the few sensations grounding him to the here and now. Kneeling, he tried to sum up the swirling, off-kilter thoughts that fractured and spun through his mind like a kaleidoscope, but in the end, all he could do was kiss the back of her hand in wordless adulation.

After all, how could he explain with mere words the boundless love he felt for her for so many years after her gentle admonishment? How could he explain that he had left his heart on a shelf only she could reach, moldering and collecting dust for as long as it took to wait for her, much like the doll she had just found? How could he begin to tell her of the way he had harnessed and bridled his desire for her - a woman that many would consider far too old for him? How could he even think to relate the heartache that he'd fought off the day of her wedding to the more socially palatable, yet far less honorable, Lowell Manchester?

Yet he did it all in one scorching pass of his firm lips on the back of her soft hand, gently cradled in his own gloved palm.

His heart cracked as she remained unresponsive to his wordless entreaty, until he could no longer stand the accusatory silence. Yes, he was being improper, but if there was one thing that Alice's public refusal had taught him, it was to walk away with his pride intact nevertheless. As he released her hand and rose to his feet, he realized once more how time had changed them - no longer was _he_ the one leaning back to look her in eye. The tables had been turned quite some time ago, but he had not had the opportunity to measure himself against her. Now it was she who craned her neck to look at him, her eyes misty with unshed tears and pain that he had obviously caused her with his forceful behaviour-

"I was such a _fool_ ," Margaret whispered harshly. Hamish suddenly realised that her small hands were quite close to his face. His jaw twitched as he felt cool fingertips slide through his sideburns and cup his cheeks reverently, as if he were as precious a memory to her as the doll smiling from the shelf.

"Alice had the right of it, I do believe. If only I had been much... _more,_ " she whispered - her breath was warm and minty, as if she had taken peppermint cordial before leaving the house. He felt his head spin as he finally realised their scandalous proximity and his hands rose up to cup her slender shoulders, every social instinct crying out to push her away before they became too improper for their own good standings.

But then she kissed him and he was lost.

Her lips were chilled from the nippy air seeping in from outside, but oh! They were luscious in their silken slide against his own. He found himself biting back a most undignified moan as she rubbed her mouth warm on his, pressing and slipping first one way and then the next. Hamish breathed deeply and then choked as her tongue - so soft and warm and moist and sweet, like a fresh strawberry - timidly swept over his bottom lip.

Propriety be damned!

Hamish drew Margaret closer, one arm securing itself around her shoulders as the other one slid determinedly to the small of her back, just above her bustle. He slanted his head and pressed his mouth almost harshly against her own, and when she gasped for much-needed air, his tongue slipped into her dewy opening to dip into temptation. Margaret sighed brokenly as their tongues glided over one another, her breathing catching short on her corset as she all but swooned against him.

Hamish groaned as he tore himself from her delicious mouth, a sound that vibrated through both of their frames as he steadfastly refused to relinquish his hold on her. His eyes were blurry as he opened them, his mind incapable of remembering when they had slipped closed. Looking around the darkening room, his eyes began to narrow in speculation. The narrow windows and the door were still open, though evening was fast drawing to a close. Had her maid or cook spotted them, caught up as they were in ardor? Would not such gossip go on to ruin her reputation further? He should not have allowed his desires such free rein at her merest invitation, not if he truly loved her!

"Come, here," Margaret whispered, her voice fluttering against his throat like the brush of moth's wings. She gently pulled him to a nearby chaise lounge in a window-less corner of the room, only releasing his hand when the gloom encompassed them completely.

"My maid has been with me since I left the house, a loyal girl," Margaret stated calmly as she carefully arranged herself on the seat. "The cook cannot climb the stairs - her gout is very bad at the moment. What of your driver?"

It took a Herculean effort on Hamish's part to bring his thoughts under control; he had been highly distracted by the thin slip of stockinged ankle he had glimpsed beneath her skirts. Clearing his dry throat and fretting with his ascot, he turned his mind to the coachman who should have been welcomed into the kitchen by now.

"Malcolm? He is mute from his earlier life as a sweep, but in any case he has always proven loyal and discreet. More likely than not he is busily entertaining your maid. What do you have in mind, Lady Manchester?"

"Hamish, if you call me by that dreadful name, I shall scold you," Margaret replied sharply, though her voice was little more than a whisper. Colour rose high in her cheeks as her cornflower-blue eyes brightened, her liveliness no longer subdued. With one tremulous hand, she reached up - hesitated - then tugged the black bow at her throat. As her bonnet slipped off to fall, neglected, behind her, wreaths of her hair fell free from their constraints. Hamish's eyes hungrily gazed upon her as she unfurled her... _muchness..._ like an emergent flower freshly risen from the garden soil.

"Come, Hamish," she breathed, low and throaty and resonant in his head. "Come and play with me properly."

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